The road goes on forever in the wasteland, red sands in a race for the horizon, kissing blue sky in a haze of choking dust.
Rule of thumb is, you see someone at the road's edge, you move right on. Don't slow down, don't look back, especially don't stop for a fucking howdy do. Grey-haired old biddies and feral kids alike these days would stab a man in the heart for his ride, for even a taste of rations and a swig of water. Ignore the tug of goodwill if it hasn't already burned black in your heart.
Life is more important: your own life. So says Nico, at any rate. He has a keen eye for would-be deception, suspicious in nature; the man was probably sent by the stars to balance out Ezio's pig-headed optimism.
Ezio's been pretty shitty about following other people's advice.
The sun is high and the dunes are low on this part of the natural highway, his quarterly trek to refresh an outpost with supplies going unhindered thus far, a rare thing. Must be true that their neighbors to the North are in the midst of some sort of calamitous upheaval, ripe pickings for raider teams and lowly dune bandits to go to town on. It also means a flood of refugees, his eagle eyes scanning for both, fingers drumming the hot wheel.
The man's shape is easily picked out, a dark figure against so much bright sand. A trap, his mind immediately goes to, but no, not here. The outposts clean up after them pretty quick, and generally for a trap to work these days, your bait wasn't supposed to move. Screaming kids, a naked woman howling for succor like a dog in heat --never mind that the woman in question probably knows a half-dozen ways to kill any helpful idiota where he stands-- now that's a proper trap.
Ezio slows, like he shouldn't. Takes a good gander at this fellow (stars, they don't make them pretty out here anymore) like he really shouldn't, and pulls to a stop behind the guy a little way back, diagonal to his path, which would have Nico and his sister swearing up a storm at him. Metal of his car between him and the stranger, just in case. His carbine in hand, too, hidden under the wheel, especially in case.
"Where are you headed?"
Edited (typo; lemme know if i need to change anything) 2015-05-25 22:24 (UTC)
The Citadel offered him a place to stay, after everything. So why is he here, many miles away from it and on foot? Because he turned them down.
He's the road warrior, after all, and won't - can't - simply make a home and... settle. Not him. Redemption isn't as easy as that. He might not be running as hard as he has been, but move he must, because to stop moving is to forfeit is to die. Survival is carved too deep into his bones for him to allow himself to rest.
That still doesn't explain why he's walking through the middle of nowhere, though. But, well. He had to find his car - which, to his surprise, he managed to, and again to his surprise, had been neither completely destroyed nor picked clean. But now that he has found his car, he has to fix his car. The tools aren't the problem, but the parts are, because his luck is shit enough that none of the other wrecks around have what he needs right now, and he can't exactly haul the thing to the Citadel with just his hands.
At least he hasn't run into too much trouble so far - he thinks, and hears the engine rolling behind him.
Shit.
Max neither slows down nor speeds up, but he glances back a few times to check if the car's staying on course. A dozen alarm bells go off in his mind when it slows down. Another dozen when the guy in the car puts himself almost in his path. He stops - doesn't approach or retreat. One hand on the shotgun at his hip. Wary, wary, wary. Paranoia keeps you alive.
"The Citadel."
It's impossible to gauge the odds for now, but his instincts haven't let him down much. He doesn't volunteer any further information, but also doesn't think there's any harm in saying that much.
Armed, so he's not entirely stupid, that's fine. You've got to be crazy or stupid or have some swinging, lead nuts to go it alone without a vehicle out here, even with his Brothers and Sisters minding this patch of the wastes. Ezio makes no effort to hide the solid once-over he gives this stranger, pulling his lenses down.
The Citadel? The things he's heard about that place in recent weeks, where there's constant water now and green life, green life like there used to be. God and his two princes were pulled from their thrones, replaced by his own Imperator...Ezio can't say he isn't happy things were shaken up. Despots deserve annihilation for their sins.
This stranger though, he looks a little...too well to be headed that direction. Healthy, tanned, maybe a bit underfed but Welcome to Dystopia, after all. Can't be a dying War Boy, he has his hair. Can't be one of the wretched diseased who might not have heard what Furiosa did to Joe.
Careful, calculated, Ezio throws out,"Going to spit on the Immortan's grave?" to test a reaction. He nods at him. "You're still days out. How much water do you have?"
So he's showing more face. Max doesn't much care, and also still can't entirely get a read on this guy. He keeps steady, keeps neutral. Watches and listens for any movement around as well as behind, because for all that this may be a fairly calm patch of wasteland, anyone who trusts anything out here is merely signing up to be a future victim of something or another.
The suggestion draws forth... nothing, which in itself may be a tell. Max didn't have as much personal beef with the Immortan as many, many others did. The bigger puzzle from where he's standing is why this stranger shows any concern about whether he can make the trip or not. There are no good Samaritans. So while he keeps any hostility from his voice, his answer is simply, "Why do you care?"
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nestbox2015-05-25 07:39 pm
no subject
Rule of thumb is, you see someone at the road's edge, you move right on. Don't slow down, don't look back, especially don't stop for a fucking howdy do. Grey-haired old biddies and feral kids alike these days would stab a man in the heart for his ride, for even a taste of rations and a swig of water. Ignore the tug of goodwill if it hasn't already burned black in your heart.
Life is more important: your own life. So says Nico, at any rate. He has a keen eye for would-be deception, suspicious in nature; the man was probably sent by the stars to balance out Ezio's pig-headed optimism.
Ezio's been pretty shitty about following other people's advice.
The sun is high and the dunes are low on this part of the natural highway, his quarterly trek to refresh an outpost with supplies going unhindered thus far, a rare thing. Must be true that their neighbors to the North are in the midst of some sort of calamitous upheaval, ripe pickings for raider teams and lowly dune bandits to go to town on. It also means a flood of refugees, his eagle eyes scanning for both, fingers drumming the hot wheel.
The man's shape is easily picked out, a dark figure against so much bright sand. A trap, his mind immediately goes to, but no, not here. The outposts clean up after them pretty quick, and generally for a trap to work these days, your bait wasn't supposed to move. Screaming kids, a naked woman howling for succor like a dog in heat --never mind that the woman in question probably knows a half-dozen ways to kill any helpful idiota where he stands-- now that's a proper trap.
Ezio slows, like he shouldn't. Takes a good gander at this fellow (stars, they don't make them pretty out here anymore) like he really shouldn't, and pulls to a stop behind the guy a little way back, diagonal to his path, which would have Nico and his sister swearing up a storm at him. Metal of his car between him and the stranger, just in case. His carbine in hand, too, hidden under the wheel, especially in case.
"Where are you headed?"
no subject
He's the road warrior, after all, and won't - can't - simply make a home and... settle. Not him. Redemption isn't as easy as that. He might not be running as hard as he has been, but move he must, because to stop moving is to forfeit is to die. Survival is carved too deep into his bones for him to allow himself to rest.
That still doesn't explain why he's walking through the middle of nowhere, though. But, well. He had to find his car - which, to his surprise, he managed to, and again to his surprise, had been neither completely destroyed nor picked clean. But now that he has found his car, he has to fix his car. The tools aren't the problem, but the parts are, because his luck is shit enough that none of the other wrecks around have what he needs right now, and he can't exactly haul the thing to the Citadel with just his hands.
At least he hasn't run into too much trouble so far - he thinks, and hears the engine rolling behind him.
Shit.
Max neither slows down nor speeds up, but he glances back a few times to check if the car's staying on course. A dozen alarm bells go off in his mind when it slows down. Another dozen when the guy in the car puts himself almost in his path. He stops - doesn't approach or retreat. One hand on the shotgun at his hip. Wary, wary, wary. Paranoia keeps you alive.
"The Citadel."
It's impossible to gauge the odds for now, but his instincts haven't let him down much. He doesn't volunteer any further information, but also doesn't think there's any harm in saying that much.
no subject
The Citadel? The things he's heard about that place in recent weeks, where there's constant water now and green life, green life like there used to be. God and his two princes were pulled from their thrones, replaced by his own Imperator...Ezio can't say he isn't happy things were shaken up. Despots deserve annihilation for their sins.
This stranger though, he looks a little...too well to be headed that direction. Healthy, tanned, maybe a bit underfed but Welcome to Dystopia, after all. Can't be a dying War Boy, he has his hair. Can't be one of the wretched diseased who might not have heard what Furiosa did to Joe.
Careful, calculated, Ezio throws out,"Going to spit on the Immortan's grave?" to test a reaction. He nods at him. "You're still days out. How much water do you have?"
no subject
The suggestion draws forth... nothing, which in itself may be a tell. Max didn't have as much personal beef with the Immortan as many, many others did. The bigger puzzle from where he's standing is why this stranger shows any concern about whether he can make the trip or not. There are no good Samaritans. So while he keeps any hostility from his voice, his answer is simply, "Why do you care?"